The Heretics' Story
by Ellcrys
Summary: An ongoing series of short vignettes involving Sydney, Hardin, and the unusual nature of the years they spent together before the siege of the manor.
1. foreword

foreword

This isn't so much a fic as a series of monologues, taking place at some point during the 4-5 years after Burning Bridges (my _real_ fic) and before the game, narrated by Sydney and Hardin and mostly centering around their relationship. Usually Hardin talking about Sydney. And often in frustration. All too frequently I'll turn off the light to go to bed, and then the muses begin telling me the things they won't say in each other's presence, and this is where these come from.

Most of these are just Livejournal jottings, though the first two bits were intended as a point-counterpoint piece. They're mostly very short, perhaps a bit sloppy, and don't really carry from one "chapter" to the next, though I've done basic edits and arranged the ones I've written so far into a semi-coherent order. Any further installments may end up being even more disjointed, temporally speaking; aside from the first two segments, they're just a collection of observations, no more.

Naturally, if you've read the story these sprouted from, you already know the warnings involved here: massive male/male content, approaching yaoi but not quite, general unpleasantness. After all, this _is_ Sydney and Hardin we're talking about, here. Names are seldom used, but it should be fairly obvious who's speaking anyway, I should hope. As far as copyrights go, of course I don't own Sydney and Hardin - _they_ own _me_, apparently, or I wouldn't be getting out of bed to write these for them so often.

-Andrea


	2. night vision 1

night vision 1

I may lie beside him, but seldom do I sleep. I've compared him to an angel, and by night he seems all the more radiant. Perhaps it is the immense power of the gods, or his naturally fair skin, but he almost seems to shine in the moonlight, standing out against the darkness of the rough blankets and sheets. Or maybe it is only that he is what I most want to see, and so I do. Such is my talent, after all. 

He cries in his sleep - quite often, though it is a very, very rare thing indeed when he is awake. Even then he is beautiful, he shines - his face does not contort in his misery. It is a silent, accepted distress that he suffers at night, and he has become accustomed to it after many years. Before he and I met, no one had ever guessed at it, for he kept his tears hidden. I feel privileged to be their sole witness. 

And so I remain awake some nights, and watch him as he lies asleep at my side, if we are not in each other's arms. Usually he is on his back; his metal limbs make it uncomfortable to lie on one side unless he has some kind of support, such as my arm, to carry some of the weight of his body. His head is tilted ever so slightly to the side, towards me, and by now I know every curve of his face by heart - I could trace the lines that his tears will follow before they rise in the corners of his eyes. 

When I do sleep, I usually have one hand extended towards him, or perhaps my arm lies under his shoulders or across his waist. I make it accessible to him so that he need not think too much before touching me. Otherwise, he might grow self-conscious before reaching out, as he used to... but then, there are some nights that I have been awakened by my whispered name. 

This is also why I seldom sleep the full night - his dreams are filled with horrors beyond what I can imagine. He has tried to describe some to me, those of the end of the world, but they are only words strung together, and therefore not so disturbing to me as they are to him. Fire rains from the heavens. The earth screams. Stars fall from the sky. Does hearing those words, especially in a soft, gentle voice such as his, inspire anywhere near the kind of terror it must be to witness such things? 

He is the strongest, most courageous person I have ever met, far beyond mortal concerns of physical safety, and yet he wakes trembling, and sometimes crying. Sometimes he gets out of bed and goes to the window, staring outside at the sky to reassure himself that the day has not come yet. 

He is a prophet, though, and I have learned to trust in his visions. He tells me that the day is fast approaching, brought about not by some whim of the gods, but the greed and duplicity of mankind. I've no reason to question this, for I've witnessed plenty of greed and duplicity in my twenty-odd years, and I've only known a small portion of the world. How much more sin lies beyond the confines of my perception? Someday that day _will_ come, I've no doubt. Probably soon. 

Though perhaps not within my lifetime. We live in a dangerous era, and we of Müllenkamp are in more danger than most, for we openly rebel against the governing church of St. Iocus. We have our swords close at hand even in the night, and spells on the tips of our tongues. Many of our brethren have fallen already, and as a swordsman, I've come within reach of death too many times to count. 

He, though, is immortal. Even if a sword were to pierce his heart, it would matter little. He will certainly live until the day he has seen, and the world will go mad around him. 

...Will I be at his side then? Even if I am, what can I do to comfort him when his visions come to pass? 

I am no prophet - I know not what the next day will bring. I must do what I can now, and that is to watch him sleep, to be ready to take him into my arms when he wakes, to hold him closely until he has calmed and can rest again. After all he has given me, I would do whatever I can for him, no matter how small. 


	3. night vision 2

night vision 2

He is kind before all else - I knew that from the moment I met him, from the moment I looked into his startled eyes and read his heart. So often he lies awake at night, keeping watch over me as I sleep, hoping to protect me from the nightmares I cannot explain, or at the least to be there holding me when I wake, to bear silent witness to that which no one else has seen. 

But he is more mortal than myself, and thus must have his own time to sleep. 

Even in slumber, his features seem to bear a look of determination, and his arms around me remain protective. But then, perhaps it is only my perception of him. One talent of mine since childhood has been the ability to see the energies that a person draws. Each living creature is attuned to certain of the elements, stronger in some than others, and that power surrounds them as a faint fragment of a rainbow in the mist. His strongest affinity is that of Earth, firm yet nurturing, but beneath the calming tones of green and brown lie undercurrents of angry red; Fire is kept buried below the surface. It is perhaps why we find each other so companionable, yet so often frustrate each other, for if my aura were not now eclipsed by the Dark, one would see the pale, cool tints of Air streaked with the deep blues and teals of Water. 

I see his Fire escape from time to time, in small measures. Outbursts of anger, the intensity of his eyes when in battle, and sometimes in lovemaking. But these are only hints of what lies beneath, miniscule flickers that might be allowed to reach the surface only for the sake of keeping a larger eruption in check. More often he appears stoic, a perfectly steady arm for those around him to lean upon, should they have need. Even those who barely know him find it not difficult to place their trust in him, for the Earth gives him a comforting presence, almost parental. Sometimes, even I cannot help but play the child in his arms, when the visions come upon me. 

No one else would know from looking at him that he suffers his own terrors in the night. 

His dreams are filled with dim light and cold stone, with the helpless solitude that nearly broke him. He never speaks of them, and in fact if I had not the talent to read hearts, I might overlook his reactions entirely. When I wake from my nightmares, I am often trembling, and I draw him closer, to reassure myself that for the time being, all is well; the world is not burning, my people are still safe, and he is still _here_, a firm physical presence filled with the steady rhythms of breathing and a beating heart. 

But he is my polarity, and so when he wakes from his nightmares, his tendancy is to turn away from me in an instinctively casual manner that could be mistaken for simple restlessness. Lying on his side, he curls his legs against his chest, his arms drawn in tight between as if for warmth. He lies huddled into himself as his half-closed eyes focus on his surroundings, forcing himself to remember that he has left the place of his dreams far behind him. Despite his considerable height and the roughness of his features, he looks childlike to me then, and very small. 

I would take him into my arms to comfort him, as he so often does for me, but another emotion covers even the melancholy that he wears like a shroud after such a dream: shame. For this, there is no comfort to be found in others; in fact, to acknowledge his distress would be to sharpen it. He neither asks nor offers anything, and I know better than to do anything but pretend I have not noticed. 

When the dreams come upon me, we take comfort in each other - he asks of me to be allowed to reassure, and for both our sakes I allow it. But when the dreams come to him, we lie side by side, in the same bed and utterly alone. 


	4. titles

titles

He never has let me say the word aloud, though he must have heard it a thousand times by now in my heart. He will interrupt, or he will turn to leave - or as he sometimes does when he wants to startle someone, he will simply vanish, before it has the chance to pass my lips. 

It's almost as if it frightens him. _Him._ He who can drag demons raging from other planes and force his will upon them, who smiles as he spits in the face of the church and the considerable military powers that back it, who sees the end of all existance in his dreams. And yet this one small word is enough to make him run from me. 

Unsurprisingly, he will not say it either - not in any form, except as it relates to the gods. But he is not a god, though some may think otherwise, and therefore his attributing this sentiment to the gods does not give me any indication of what _he_ feels. 

I did gather up enough courage to ask him once, indirectly - over a quiet dinner in the common room of an inn, where he could not run away so easily. "What would you call me?" I asked. 

He mocked at first, of course, without skipping a beat, and perfectly straightfaced beneath the deep hood which kept him hidden from those present who might have an eye on our bounty. "I call you Hardin." 

"So you do." I gave him a smile, just to indulge him. "If you were to speak of me, what would you say I am? Your second? Your friend and companion? Or merely one of your followers?" 

His mouth tightened then, and his eyes turned cold. 

"Am I another of your consorts, Sydney?" I continued. "Or would you say that I am your-" 

He cut me off with a shake of his head. "I would not call you 'my' anything." 

Needless to say I was disappointed, if perhaps not surprised. But after I had fallen silent, not wishing to press the issue, suddenly he rose from our table, chuckling under his breath with cruel amusement as he turned away from me. "Hardin... you are not 'my' anything - you are simply 'mine'." 

Though it shames me to admit it, those words thrilled me more than they frightened me. 


	5. sleeping arrangements

sleeping arrangements

Despite his apparent immortality, he is surprisingly delicate. In fact, were he not immortal, I wonder if he would have lived as long as he has. He tends to eat only the lightest of foods, and can tolerate only a few glasses of the most fragrant wine - given his terribly slender stature, that is not so surprising. Less worrisome, his bones were not made for sleeping upon the ground as we so often do while on the run, but upon a soft mattress - swathed in smooth, clean sheets instead of our rough blankets grey with the dust of the road; with a thick down pillow to support his graceful neck instead of simply another rolled blanket, or as sometimes happens, nothing at all. 

Even the mattresses we have at our 'home' in Lea Monde are coarser than he would prefer, though he says nothing. I can tell, however, for usually he awakens with his neck and shoulders stiff, and it takes him a few minutes before he can stand without pain - though when he is needed, he can leap to his feet readily enough to defend against those who pursue us. When that is not the case, and we have the time, I sometimes start his day with a light massage over his neck and upper back; with hands such as his, he cannot rub away the stiffness himself. He never asks, but sometimes he does give me the courtesy of a murmured "thank you". 

The only time he has a chance to sleep in the luxury he deserves is during our visits to the duke's manor, with all its richness. But there, his heart is more troubled than ever, for reasons he will not tell me, and sleep does not come easily. Despite his frailty, he does sleep better upon the ground with our brethren than he does in that place. 

He made the comment once, teasingly (as always), that I am his favorite sleeping accommodations. I smiled slightly, and I pointed out that with my lean muscle, I cannot possibly be any softer than our mattresses. But he shook his head and laughed a bit, and told me it did not matter. And it is true, he does seem to sleep through the night easier when he is draped over the top of me... 

I told him then, honestly, that he was my favorite blanket, though the gods know there is not enough of him to completely cover me. And he nodded; he knows as I do that there are different sorts of luxuries to be found. 


	6. we are as gods

we are as gods

They never see me. Never. I think it is because I am always standing beside you. I suppose you see me when they cannot only because you cannot be blinded by your own beauty. Some would say you are, and call you vain and arrogant, but I know otherwise. With all your beauty and charm, you draw the eye; next to your brilliance, anyone else would appear dim and dull and ugly, and so I do. I am only a man, as you show me so often, for I bleed - often at your whims. But you, Sydney, are... 

No, you are a man also. I have seen you bleed as well, many times, even if your skin never bears a scar. You eat, you breathe, you sleep just as the rest of us do. But you have been touched by the gods, and you became something more than an ordinary man. 

That touch of the gods... I can understand why so many have offered their bodies to you. To touch you is to touch what the gods touched, to draw close to that divinity and power. Even if not for your beauty, you are what every man and woman has craved since time began - a taste of omnipotence, the attention of something greater than themselves. I know this because I know man, and I know that it is a wretched, greedy species. Yes, I know this because I am the same. 

...But more than the part of you that was touched by the gods, Sydney... I find divinity in the part of you that is still man. For I was long without the gods, and even while I doubted the claims that you were something beyond mortal, still I desired you. When I touch that part of you that is still unmistakably man - when I coax those deep, quiet sounds from the back of your throat, when I make you shiver - I am touching what the gods could not reach. I am touching _you_, and unlike the others who seek kinship with the gods by touching what they have touched, I become like the gods in that like them, I touch you. That is as close to divinity as I could ever hope to come. 


	7. delirium

delirium

I've compared making love to him to an evening spent before the hearth, lazing upon a soft rug or amidst down pillows, with a good book and a bottle of the finest red wine. He is relaxing, easy, eminently comfortable - in a way, a throwback to a life I abandoned years ago. 

His love is thick and luxurious, though at times as rough as the scratch of his beard against my cheek and my chin as his mouth finds my throat, as hard as the calluses on his hands as they tangle in my hair and rest against my scalp. No one has sought to touch me in such ways as he does, for there are few in this world who do not now see me as something to be feared or revered. Oh, he does fear me - but his reverence is on a more personal level, a desire to please rather than to lie back and adore as the object of that adoration goes about his personal business, taking as he sees fit. He is brave enough to overcome his fear, when given reason, and this is reason enough. 

My lips are pressed deliciously against the curve of his shoulder, and we know each other so very well by now; he has a taste that I could only describe as earnest - an open, earthy flavor reminiscent of fresh mushrooms and autumn leaves and leather and the smell before the rain begins to fall in the lowlands where I was born. His heart too is open, and as he gently lays me back upon the sheets, to explore with his hands and his tongue, I explore him in ways he cannot fathom. 

It would be too easy, with him so responsive, to let the Dark dream of what may come just as he does. But I know the Dark every bit as well as I know him - I know which dreams it would raise, by its fatalistic nature, and now is not the time for such visions. Instead, I push backwards, into what has already been - what _he_ has already been. 

His soul is as comforting as his body, all browns and deep greens and burgandy, smoldering like the sunset with a warmth that comes from somewhere much farther within than the heat of his flesh against mine. This too holds a taste of the earth, but aged in the darkness as liquor, mellowed and yet still possessed of a sharp edge. The ghosts of a fallen family and the dreams of youth haunt in the corners, at the edge of my Sight, and his soul aches with voices and deeds nearly forgotten but burned into his mind nonetheless. I need not go deep to find the bittersweet misery of solitude, and I touch that memory, stroking it with ethereal fingers much gentler than my own could be. 

He does not know how I have touched him aside from the flesh, and in flesh is his response as he draws me closer, instinctively seeking something to fill the emptiness that left him so incomplete. His surface thoughts are abstract and lusty, an incoherent rumbling like the thunder preceding the storm as he allows me to part his knees, but above that roar I can hear him faintly wondering whether his actions are meant to provide me with pleasure, or if he instead seeks comfort himself. Or does his comfort perhaps come from my pleasure? 

He does not know, and therefore neither do I, although he knows far less of what is passing between us than I do. For him, it is a physical thing, perhaps spiritual in the way that it awakens emotions so deeply felt, but summed up in the senses of sight and sound and smell and taste and touch. He knows nothing of the senses of the soul, and oh - _dear gods_, the soul. Could one even withstand such a power in a mortal body? 

For I am engulfed in him, in everything that makes him _him_, and I could so very easily lose sight of my own soul, for I've no desire to ground myself. It feels like driftwood tossed lightly upon the waves of the high seas, like some reckless bird absently riding the violent winds amidst a storm instead of taking shelter. Like when you were a child, kept in your chamber for long weeks due to illness, and then you are finally let outdoors once more, and you spin and spin until you are overcome by dizziness and fall upon the grass, and the nurse rushes to your side, afraid you're having a fit of some kind, but you lie back and laugh and laugh and laugh even though you can't be sure yourself, and the sun shines hot upon your face, its attention fully on you just as his, and you hear nothing but the wind whistling in your ears, or your own breathless gasps, and the hum of the bustling servants and merchants in the courtyard, just like his voice desperately murmuring your name over and over again... 

And you hear it above the wind, and the waves come crashing down upon the shore, and the storm blows itself out. 

The Dark has lost interest and so it recedes for the time being, and he and I are alone once more. His breathing is every bit as heavy as mine, though I catch my breath from something far beyond physical exertion. I am still here, and he is still here, and somehow this is surprising, for looking upon him now is like looking upon a portrait painted many years before, showing only a fraction of a memory. 

But he is still here, and he rolls to his side, his hand trembling slightly as it rests warm and damp upon my belly, and he lets out a quiet sigh that is part satisfaction and part relief. After a moment, he chuckles softly, his deep voice slurred with exhaustion as if he had been drinking. "...Beautiful." 

He would think it absurd if I were to say the same, and so I merely rest my own hand atop his. The steel is cold upon his heated skin, but he does not pull away, for he is heated from within, and he knows that in time the warmth of his body will lessen the chill of the metal - just as the memory of his soul's warmth lessens my own chill, like an evening spent before the hearth, lazing upon a soft rug or amidst down pillows... 


	8. hansel and the witch

hansel and the witch

He may not be arrogant, but he knows full well how beautiful he is. Just as he does with everything else he has been given in life (including myself, I suppose), he uses his appearance to the fullest advantage to get what he desires. The way he walks, the way he moves, those could simply be his natural mannerisms. But the shameless way in which he presents himself, the way he wears his clothes, the low murmuring of his voice when he wants something... Those are all deliberate and well-practiced, as are the light caresses, laughter, and kisses he offers to those who follow him. 

At times he reminds me of the witch from a story I heard when I was a child - doling out sweets to the children who ventured near her cottage, enticing them to trust in her with hints of more to come, then capturing and cooking them for her own dinner. A child's tale, yes, and one so absurd that it did not frighten me even in my youth, but now that I am grown, I know that such witches _do_ exist. It seems to me as though they are everywhere. 

When he looks into my eyes, when he offers me those sweet kisses and caresses, I'm never quite sure whether to feel grateful or insulted. After all, he offers the same to all those with him, and just as I do, they enjoy it. Like myself, they consider it a blessing. 

Unlike myself, they do not seem to care what his motive is for offering these token blessings. Unlike myself, they seem not to become jealous if he offers the same to a number of them in the same breath. 

He used to offer far more than kisses to a great deal of them, before he and I began to share a bed, and sometimes I wonder still if this has continued. I've never seen any evidence, aside from the way they continue to adore him exactly as they did before. Given the way he avoids making any definite statement about what I am to him, I would not have been surprised if he had not changed his ways, but once he suggested otherwise. 

"They are content with a kiss," he told me dismissively. His dark eyes were fixed upon me, smirking at me as surely as his mouth. "In truth, no more was required of me to seal any man or woman's obedience until I met you, dear friend." 

I suppose I should have pushed him aside and left the bedroom rather than allowing him to press the length of his body against my own. I did not. 

"You're very greedy, Hardin," he murmured in that well-practiced tone as his hips brushed against mine and he gazed up at me hungrily. A witch, indulging a more stubborn child. "You require so much more than any of them." 

Disgusted by his words and their implication, I only managed to mumble his name against his lips before I found myself pushed backwards against the wall, hopelessly trapped by a body so light that I could have lifted it out of my way easily. Indeed - I was hopelessly trapped regardless, as my hands instead stroked tattooed skin, fingertips digging into the leather of his leggings as I pulled him closer still. "What more do you give me than you give the rest of them?" I growled a moment later, when he allowed me to breathe again. "What more do I 'require'?" 

The smirking eyes fixed upon mine again, and I felt the touch of cold metal resting upon my cheek - chilling, but by this time I'd come to find it soothing as well - as he offered a simple, short response which gave me pause. "Sincerity." 

...To be honest, he was wrong. I may despise myself for it, but I require no more incentive for my obedience than the rest of them. Whatever else he chooses to give me, most especially the sincerity, is a gift. 


	9. manipulation

manipulation

Do you realize how easily you manipulate people? Do you indeed even notice the manipulation anymore? I don't imagine you do - it has been second nature for you for as long as we've known each other, and I imagine for many years before. Not that you intend it, of course, but you're beautiful, you're powerful. People see that power and that beauty and are blinded by it. They will give you anything you desire, if you so much as hint at it. 

I include myself with them, of course; I know I am a hypocrite. At least I am not ignorant. 

Every time things go wrong for us, I see the eyes of our brethren turn upon me in anger or disappointment. Most I would consider friends, but since becoming your second, I have become something more and something less. They put their faith and their trust in me, just as they do in you - but unlike you, I am not the perfect, flawless voice of the gods. When you look upon me with frustration burning in those strange eyes of yours, they see that it was my fault the knights chanced upon us. My fault that the alarm was sounded too early, my fault that we acted on the misinformation of our contacts, my fault that we made a reckless gamble - even when you were the one who insisted we move swiftly, and I cautioned you against it. After all, I am the mortal, and you are the miracle; if there are mistakes made, it was I who made them. 

But I accept it. For your sake, I accept it, for I know how tormented you were in the days before you had someone else to blame, when it was always _your_ fault. They did not blame you then, either, for you have always been their saviour, but I know that in your own mind you were destroying yourself for every miscalculation. It is easier for me to withstand their accusations and yours than to watch you suffer silently, your pride and your position not allowing for any admission of guilt. They needed their saviour, and they still do. 

And so I will follow you to your bed, and I will make my sincere apologies - yes, sincere, for I am as taken with you as the others, if not more so - and allow you to vent your rage upon my body. Unlike you, I can be pacified simply by the healing spell you whisper after, when I am lying bleeding on your sheets, and the sweet, secret smile that accompanies it - a smile for my eyes only. 

You've never needed to use that compulsion of yours, Sydney. 


	10. the oracle

the oracle

As the messenger of the gods, and the chosen oracle of Müllenkamp, Sydney has been known to do and say many remarkable things. I've seen him summon the elements, and read the hearts of the people who gather round to hear his words, delving into the secret parts of their souls and divining the truth, that they might believe. More frighteningly, I've seen him touched by the gods, breathing revelations of the past and future as if they were no more than an ordinary tale to be told. 

The gods' touch transfigures him into something more and something less than even he normally is, laying their spirit upon him and making him their vessel. Always he seems to become larger, stronger than his physical body would suggest, and immense power radiates from him while he grows as distant and serene as they, but I've learned to identify each of the gods now, just from the nuances each lends him. When it is Marduk, god of the storm, his eyes grow dark, and seem to flash with an inner lightning as he speaks. Talia, maiden goddess of the water, causes his movements to become even more graceful as he gestures, painting his prophecies in motion as well as speech. Palolo, the mother earth goddess, lends him a soft smile and a whisper to reassure, even while he speaks the unspeakable; and then there is the look of all-consuming hunger when he is being spoken through by Tamulis, god of fire. Kadesh, the goddess of light, love, and fertility, never seems to come through quite properly, and that is perhaps no surprise. His soul is saturated with the Dark, the natural bane of her Light, and doubtless she finds him an uncomfortable host. 

It cannot be helped; the Dark has no god to govern it aside from the Keeper, which originated in Müllenkamp after the destruction of the great devil Balam, who became maddened by the Dark's void. The task of Keeper now has fallen to him. In a sense, Sydney has become that missing god, completing the circle and holding the balance. But though he is the closest equivalent, sometimes too I see him filled with the Dark - for it has a will all its own, and it fights against the authority of someone who was once born of a mortal woman. When it fills him, there is none of the peace and poise the gods lend him, but only a sense of overwhelming, frightening power, and a look of madness in his eyes as he rants and raves of things unseen. I've wondered if that madness is of the Dark itself or his own soul slowly corrupted, just as Balam's was, but thankfully it has always passed, though he is left ill and exhausted afterwards. The hand of any of the gods causes this to some degree, so it is not so frightening; it is something I can understand. 

One thing I do not understand. When filled with the spirit of any of the gods, he never fails to have a look of distant serenity. Yet each time he turns to me in the midst of their visions, looking down upon me with the eyes of the gods, such sorrow fills his face that it could break a man's heart. What revelation he might be seeing then has never been explained. I suppose revelations and prophecies are for those whose faith is still unformed, not for those who have already pledged service no matter what may come... but even those of us with faith still have our questions. 


	11. wandering spirits

wandering spirits

He's deathly pale, and in the moonlight paler still. His footsteps totter back and forth unsteadily as he makes his way across the room, and his pallor gives him the appearance of some wandering spirit, lost in the desire to remember when it could move in a mundane fashion. Even the sounds of metal on metal, joints and digits clicking slightly, bring to mind thoughts of chains rattling. Those limbs seem to keep him similarly grounded in this world for the time being, for although he's long since accustomed himself to their weight, tonight he is exhausted, and having difficulty balancing beneath their heavy sway. I have to wonder why he chose to leave his bed to pour himself a drink, rather than asking me... he knows I would not object. He knows I would aid him as well, but we've been together for long enough now that I've learned not to bother. 

Those limbs, far too dark and real for a being so pale and ethereal, clatter faintly as he lets himself down upon the bed once more. He's been unwell more and more often of late - not that he's changed his ways in the slightest for all of it. I wonder if he had so little regard for his wellbeing when he was only a man, and not immortal. 

...I often wonder what he may have been like when he was mortal. Was he once something unspectacular? Something perfectly normal? It seems an impossibility to me now, but if he was always something so strange and so special, that might mean that he was fated for this from birth... and fate is not a matter I will allow myself to think much upon. Better to think upon him. 

If he is not already fast asleep, he is well on his way - lying where he collapsed with his hair spread across his face, moving slightly with each shallow breath he takes. Even as far gone as he is, he still flinches a bit as I pull it back from his lips, but either this time he recognizes the gesture as one of kindness rather than attack, or he is simply too exhausted; either way, I am not punished. I can't help but wonder if he has such trials in the flesh because he does not belong on this plane any more than another wandering spirit in this city might. 

But for now I can see him, I can touch him. As I pull up the sheets around his shoulders, they retain their peaks and folds, conforming to the shape beneath them. They rise and fall with the rhythm of his breathing, and after a time it evens out - the evidence that he sleeps spelled out in angles and curves of light and shadow and the tight weave of the fabric. 

As for myself, I intend to stay awake, lest this restless spirit rise from his bed again with no one to behold his wandering. Unlike the scores of others in this place, he has a place and a purpose to return to - and as I live, someone to see him there safely. 


	12. silence that speaks

silence that speaks

"The world has gone mad." 

His bitterness is to be expected. We lost five tonight, in a riot unforeseen to all but myself, and he's pacing the width of the room, scowling, for he can't sleep after so much loss in so little time. I could sleep, but only because if I could not sleep after witnessing such things, I would rarely sleep at all; I've learned to accept it. You'd think I was the soldier, and not him. 

"It will go madder still," I reply. In truth, I cannot be so upset by this turn of events, for of the five, I know that three now rest in the presence of the gods in whose name they were slaughtered. It would be an injustice to mourn for them, when they've achieved what I would wish for myself if circumstances were different. The other two did not die for the gods, however; they came to us because they sought civil unrest. We did not turn them away, for we needed all the men who were willing. 

He finds it difficult to understand how the loss of life might be a blessing under the right circumstances - his faith in the gods is not so strong as mine. If I were to be honest, I would confess that most of what faith he has lies in me. 

He looks back at me now, vaguely troubled; my words are far from comforting, certainly, and they unsettle him further. To any who would look upon us now, his lying down beside me and sliding one arm beneath the arc of my neck would be taken as a gesture of comfort, but I see his heart. "It will be all right," he murmurs, resting his other arm across my chest. "Everything will be fine." 

Though his words may sound kind, there is a plaintiveness in it. He does not seek to give me reassurance, he is looking for an answer - the same answer he's been waiting to confirm since he made his pledge to me. He believes in me; he seeks my agreement, because he trusts that I would not lie to him. 

His trust, naturally, is misplaced. I was told long ago that it would not be my task to put things right. I might tell him the truth, if I did not know that it would crush him. It would not help to lessen the blow if I were to tell him that his time shall come even before mine. 

The arm across my chest raises slightly, so that his fingers may play through my hair, but the longing ache I feel from him has nothing to do with the flesh this time. Again, almost unconsciously, he murmurs his desire. "Everything will be fine, Sydney." 

I have neither the conviction to lie to him again, nor the heart to tell him the truth; I say nothing. 


	13. whole

whole

Today was a good day. Though nothing much was accomplished, nothing went wrong. No one betrayed us, no one was cut down. And so it is only he and I that lie in this bed, without the anger or the shame or the fear; merely he and I and what we become when we are together, and then he and I once more. 

Now he lies nestled against my side, fine hair spread like a fan across my shoulder. My eyes are closed, but still I cannot help but See him, pale and lovely. One of his legs is between my own, no longer as chill as it was when we lay down, but heated by my own warmth, and there is a measure of satisfaction in that something of me remains in him, even if it is not truly him. There was a time when this would have terrified me, but it seems ages ago now. 

Likewise, my fingers absently trace along a forearm smoother and harder than flesh, caressing. I know he cannot really feel my touch, but he is made aware of it, and it is as soothing for me to touch him as it might have been for him to be touched. Even so, Looking upon what is left of him, it is not difficult to imagine a softer shoulder in the crook of my arm, and a graceful hand, fine-boned, that I rest my fingertips upon instead of this stiff metal. It is foolish to say such a thing, but after such a day, a little folly does not seem so terrible a thing, and I allow myself to say it; "I wish that I could have seen you when you were whole." 

He stirs slightly at the murmur, half-asleep before I spoke, but he never fails to be coherent enough to give a quiet rebuke. "Whole, John? I am as whole now as I have ever been." 

He has shifted a bit, and his other leg is now cold against my thigh, but I say nothing more. Never has he told me exactly how he came to be as he is, only that it was for the gods. If I take his meaning correctly, I imagine that he is now likely more whole than I have been in my entire life. 


	14. becoming a stranger

becoming a stranger

It's as if he's another person when he and I are alone. 

Those he works with, those he instructs in the fine arts of deceiving and killing for me, see him as cold, hard. Always polite, for he could be nothing less, and always quiet, but grim and stern and focused. He is certain of what they must do, and how they must do it. That is what they see of him - that, and a small measure of his bitterness towards our foes. 

He did not always present himself this way, of course. There was a time when he first came to us, when we were more a family than a collection of rebels, that all those in our number saw him as only I still do - confused and weary and gentle. 

He has hardened so quickly, I would think that perhaps this is how he is naturally inclined to be (an ironic foresight in his family name), and it was only that too much hardship had worn away at him when first we met. I would think this, if not for the way his face changes when it is only he and I, apart from the others. There is little of warmth or kindness in his eyes anymore, except for the times when he meets mine, more cold and hard than his could ever manage. For me he still softens and yields, and I do not need to read his heart to know that this is his true nature. 

I recognize it for what it is - in his helplessness, he is trying to become what he most desires to be. He is trying to become me. 

But the transformation does not suit him. When he is with the others, hiding behind this unconscious deception, he appears only to be an ordinary man. When we are alone, his brown eyes warming with every gaze, he is beautiful. 

No man looks right in the skin of another. 


	15. thinking ahead

thinking ahead

He found our missing brethren for me, but much too late. I could not see with my eyes the scene that the Dark laid out before him, but his words gave me the report I asked of him. His heart gave me the details he neglected. 

When he had finished, the echoes of his voice fell into troubled silence just as the echoes of the Dark drained from his perception, but the images he had seen remained fresh in his mind. Say what they will about the 'savage cruelty' of my followers and myself, the inquisitors of the 'merciful' St. Iocus never fail to surpass us. 

He stood in quiet thought for a time, his eyes seeing nothing at all for once - only what lay within. Finally he lowered his distant gaze, regarding me seriously. "Sydney... If I may... beg a favor. Should they chance to take us..." 

His eyes went involuntarily to my hands, to the razor-sharp edges that tipped them. I have always been careful, even while ruthless, and that he knows well. 

I give him a slight nod of my head - a lie, when I know already that it will not come to that for him, but he does not know this, and he breathes a sigh of relief and regret. His own dagger would suffice, would even be less painful, but it is not surprising that he should wish this - that his end might come at the point of these instruments that have drawn so much of his blood already, and at his request. 

And yet he did surprise me - in his heart, I heard the words he dared not voice, and I had never dared to think. _I wish I had the power to promise you the same, lest you go on suffering at their hands without hope of the peace you'd have given me._

I suppose that it was only fitting that I should be recompensed for the many times _my_ words have inadvertantly terrified _him_. 


	16. fatigue

fatigue

My head has had a dull ache in it for a long time now, nearly since I took up with him and his followers. For a time, I feared that it might be an effect of the Dark, as I was cautioned repeatedly that it can become deadly with prolonged, intense use, and I constantly pushed the boundaries to increase in ability and tolerance. No one else among us seems to be troubled by such pains, however, and once I learned for certain what form the adverse effects of the Dark take, all I could assume is that I was pushing myself too hard in other ways. 

There was a time, the first time in many years, when I slept soundly through the night, every night. It was not long after we'd begun sharing a bed, and it was unusual enough that I confronted him over it. I already knew of the visions he saw, of the tears he shed quietly, and the panic that ate away at him; there was no need to bewitch me. 

True to form, he merely made a snide comment - stating with a smirk that I seemed to enjoy being bewitched by him. It took more confrontations and many more nights of suspiciously restful slumber before he finally allowed me to wake before dawn to hold him, as he murmured of the apocalypse and trembled. 

Now it's simple enough to name this nearly terminal ache as fatigue, but I would not trade it for anything. The alternative would be to miss those rare times that he uses me - he _needs_ me - and does not belittle me in the process. It was a rare victory that I won against his will, and I shall not reliquish it, even for a clear head and a much-needed night of uninterrupted slumber. 


	17. the faltering upper hand

the faltering upper hand

I never picked up a weapon until I was nineteen, perhaps twenty years old. By that time, I had left my former name and family long behind, and with it the protection it offered from the Church. For the first time, it was my own responsibility to protect my life. I picked it up quite quickly, as I do anything I set my mind to. Not to sound arrogant; I know as well as anyone, likely far better, that I have many faults - but boasting is not one of them. 

And then there is he, who never fails to humble me. 

It is only natural, as he had many years' experience ahead of me to begin with - time spent as a soldier, wielding his sword often and with greater urgency than I, for he had something more dear to protect than his own life. In addition to the experience, he had duty and drive on his side, and though he will not admit it even to himself, a certain amount of ambition. 

I can match him in speed, and perhaps even surpass him in agility, but my strength and endurance run low without the support of magic. Even then, our practice bouts never last long; despite his height and the awkward, self-conscious mannerisms he so often assumes in my presence, he fights with such skill that each motion seems natural for him. Lessons have flowed into familiarity and on into instinct, and the result is a grace that often causes me to wonder why he still refuses to join our brethren in the dance. 

He bests me each time, though he quite obviously holds back when others are watching. Only courtesy, perhaps, but when we are alone in the courtyard at night, his restlessness or my dreams keeping us from slumber, at times I see a heat in his eyes that seems more than competitive. And then when I am knocked to the ground or divested of my weapon, perhaps bleeding from some accidental wound, beyond his mild guilt I see a bittersweet satisfaction; despite all my power and my charm, he has proved that in at least one way, he has the advantage over me. This satisfaction only breeds a deeper guilt, and perpetuates the cycle between us - he requests punishment, I comply, his quiet resentment grows stronger, and the next time his sword draws more blood, leading to yet more guilt. 

The blood is easily dealt with; the guilt is another matter. 


	18. scar tissue

scar tissue

His skin is pale and smooth. I know every inch, for I've felt it under my fingers and under my lips - every inch that is not covered over by the metal that replaced certain portions of it. Like the metal, it never changes, no matter how many times it is torn or pierced or burned away. The Dark restores him, and leaves behind no trace of any distress. 

He bears but one scar over his body, despite all the injuries that have been inflicted upon him, and it is only a small, rough mark upon the bottom of his chin; a mark left over from the years when the Dark did not yet run through him, I can only assume. Perhaps it was from his childhood - an accident while playing outside on rocky ground, or even an unwelcome souvenir from the days when a little boy was first learning to walk. It is strange, if only for being so ordinary. 

My own marks are numerous, gathered in battles throughout the years, but I don't expect that he will let me see another, for he uses the same power that keeps his flesh from corruption to mend mine. He has taught me to do the same, though I am not so good at it as he. Marks upon the flesh, however, are not the only scars a man can bear, and I imagine that with each stinging word, sharp as the edge of a blade, I gather scars still. 

As for him, I can only wonder what injuries drew him so tight around his soul, and left his eyes so impenetrable. 


	19. winter

**winter**

I've heard him murmur it of me, in particular moments - that I am the falling leaves of autumn to him. I'd always thought him poetic, from the way he speaks his prophecies, but I confess I'd never thought he would express it on my behalf. 

As for him, his season is winter, no doubt. He drifts through this corrupted land, this ruined city, like a snowfall; everything he touches, no matter how foul, seems purer when he has claimed it. Seen from afar, from the safety of a window or the Sight, he is serene and comforting. 

It is only those who find themselves lost in him, knee-deep in him, fighting to find strength beneath the dark ice of his gaze and the biting cold of his fingers - only such a man knows how bitter winter can be. 


	20. how can it hurt

**how can it hurt**

The aroma of the incense and the hum of the brethren's chanting drift through the air, the only reminders that I am not where I seem to be. Time is growing short, and although the day the gods show me has not come yet, soon it will, and I must prepare. 

The vision is dark, as always, lit by fires that have not yet been set. They paint the man's skin golden - a man I've seen many times now. His skin is tanned, his hair a shade or two darker, and his muscles are well-defined, as any soldier's should be. I have yet to see his face clearly, and this time my eyes are drawn away by the sword he carries, before it vanishes into the flame. The sword I have seen many more times than the man, and not in his hand; I've seen the hilt in slender fingers tipped with sharp nails and adorned with rings - I've seen her dancing with it, this blade she kept long ago, and gave the name _Fandango_. 

_It is the blade that will show the way,_ it whispers. _You will know him by what he wields._

This was the message of the prophecy, and now that it has been relayed, the vision is not so taut; the threads of time and fate and what-may-be and what-might-come unravel before my mind's eye and twist into what I have already been told will come to pass. 

I do not need to see it again. _I do not._

But the Dark laughs, and it shows me again anyhow. 

A different man, one whose face I know well, but paler. His lips are red with his own blood, but he smiles weakly as he reaches a hand up to touch... me? Or a ghost I left behind in this cursed city? 

The sun is rising behind him, causing the dark stain spreading from beneath his shirt to blend into the darkness of the rest of his crumpled form, sitting against the wall. The blink of an eye, against the glare of the sunrise, and he becomes no more than another handful of flickering motes, invisible against the dawn. 

_I do not need to see this,_ and the Dark laughs again as it gives way, the blood vanishing from his lips and the dim light of dawn replaced by thirteen candles as he steps forward in alarm to catch me as I collapse. 

When I wake with a start some hours later, we are alone in my bed; his hand is at my cheek, in the midst of brushing away a hot tear. "What did you see?" he asks, his voice low and concerned. 

The vision of the man and the sword was mine alone, and the rest... 

When I open my mouth to speak, I find that nothing I can say is coherent. 

He pulls me closer, carefully, and winces as I raise my hand to stroke across his bare chest, to his ribs, to _feel_ and to _know_ that the skin has not yet been pierced by any blade - only to find me piercing his skin myself, having forgotten myself in my desperation. I have no fingers with which to feel anymore, and he will not let me say anything, if I _would_ apologize, for his lips cover mine, mercifully tasting of cool water and not of blood. 

His fingers are kept busy brushing the tears away, to my shame, and for a moment he draws back, looking down at me in worry. "...Should I stop? I don't want to hurt you..." 

_Then you should not be so damnably kind.   
Then you should not be in my bed.   
Then you should run away, far away, while you have the strength to run._


	21. artistry

**artistry**

One would think, looking at his hands, that he might show clumsiness - a lack of control when working with such unusual fingers. But within the sundered body, he possesses the soul of an artist. 

The blades of his fingers scrape the ground, meticulously scratching out the shapes and runes and patterns that our spellcasting requires in little time; he's learned each circle by heart, and manages finer detail even in his smallest circles, less than one pace across, than most of us can manage at a larger scale. He is quick, precise. 

His gestures are grand, sweeping, and full of grace; his wrists move fluidly despite the angular metal as he raises a glass, points a finger, waves dismissively. There is an elegance to his movement in the least elegant of situations, when he falls unto unconsciousness after a prophecy or shreds the curtains in a rage. Rather than flinching from his anger, I am transfixed. 

If he had not taken this role of prophet and saviour, he might have won the hearts of many as the lead among a troupe of actors or minstrels travelling about the countryside - or perhaps he'd have secluded himself away to become a legend, capturing portraits and landscapes in bold strokes on canvas for the nobles to bid upon. But no matter what path he might have chosen, I have no doubt that the people would have sought after him as they do now, for he has a soul that cries for attention - impossible to overlook, and difficult to look away from. 


	22. hollow

**hollow**

Months have passed since we met. Months and months. The days have been busy, and the nights... each strange in their own way. 

I recognize my face in a way no man should. Many a night I have lain awake on my back, looking down at myself from above the bedrolls, looking up in return at the place where I am not and yet am. I feel his breath in my ear even as I look upon his body, lying next to another body, beneath sheets that twist between the two halves of me. 

My headaches have only grown more frequent, as have the dangers of our task, and at times I stand invisibly over myself, thinking over the limitation I have been given. From outside, it appears as only a shell, tying me to things I do not wish to recall. When I am here, there is no pain but that which still comes from the body and the memories of the body, and if only I could be free of such pains, I could be this forever - silent, observing, knowing. If I could touch the throat that pulses faintly under my gaze, I might crush it, but I cannot. 

But then, some nights he wakes, and I am given reason to honor this cursed tie to my flesh. 


	23. because i love thee

**because i love thee**

It is said that there are three reasons that a person will serve another in this world, and I've seen two of them in the faces of the men who follow me. 

There is a man who will follow out of fear; he serves because he is afraid of what will be done to him if he does not serve. These men are simple to pick out in a crowd when I speak - all one needs to do is look for the eyes when I prophesy of what will come, and watch how they grow wide and terrified at the words. They cling to the flesh, to their souls, as though they will not crumble to dust someday whether I accept their lives or not - as though they believe that they will lose less by turning aside to me than they will by continuing on their way - and I know better. 

The second man is like the first, and yet like the rare third; he serves not because of what he fears losing, but because of what he stands to gain. These too are simple enough to pick out of a crowd, in the moments of clarity before the spirits of the gods fall upon me. They gaze in awe at the power I have acquired - and not without a certain degree of hunger for the same. 

But then there is a rarer kind of servitude, and a man who exemplifies it within my service. I have seen hunger in his eyes in the earliest hours before dawn, and I have seen those eyes terrified as he wonders if this time the Dark has driven me mad, but it is neither the terror nor the hunger that keeps him among our number. He has faced fear before, and spat in its face. He has been offered the only thing he wanted, and seen for himself that promises of reward often turn up empty. 

Yet it is not desperation - a lack of alternative - that causes him to remain in my service. His reason is reflected in the warmth of his gaze when our eyes meet over the rim of a wineglass at dinner, and in the worshipful touch of his fingers upon my skin, even when there is nothing divine to be worshipped there. 

John Hardin's reason for serving me is not difficult to recognize - and yet somehow, so much more difficult to acknowledge. 


	24. mundane matters

**mundane matters**

The shadows under his eyes are far deeper than those cast by the lamplight that flickers around the two of us, over the rough furniture of his room. Little light comes through the window as of yet, seeing as it is only barely dawn - too early for him to be awake, much less breakfasting. Often enough he skips the morning meal anyhow, stating quietly that eating too soon in the day does not agree with him. 

After yet another of his dreams, however, it is impossible for him to sleep again, and therefore we chose to begin the day early. I've brought bread and butter and a bit of fruit, and now we sit together at his small table, eating in silence. There is nothing I can say to him, and no reason to say it even if I would. He knows. 

I wonder what will become of the world, when it ends as he has seen. Will we see it coming from a distance, or will calamity come upon us too quickly to acknowledge? Will we who follow him die one by one, or will we all perish at once and all mortal life with us? Will I die quickly, or slowly, watching our brethren pass before me? Will we burn in the fire of the stars falling - or as he says happened long ago, will the earth be covered by a cold and a darkness so severe that it cannot sustain life as we know it? 

I could ask him these questions. But he would not answer, or he would have already - for by even thinking the questions in my own mind, I am asking him. I need not interrupt his meal to ask such things aloud, when I know he will not speak. 

He breaks our silence with a sudden quiet chuckle, and I look up. "Such a morbid topic for pondering over breakfast," he murmurs, bitter, but not exactly reproving. Not exactly. 

I mumble an apology regardless, reaching for another slice of apple from the platter between us. "After so long, I fear such ponderings have become mundane to me." 

There is a pause, and when he laughs again, the sound is tinged with honesty and frustrated tears. 


	25. the gods' gift

**the gods' gift**

Free will - it is the gift of the gods. It is what separates him from the creatures I have taught him to summon; that, and the flesh beneath his armor, where the walkers have naught but the Dark. 

I do not hear the whispers only because no one dares voice them, lest I think them to be contradicting my judgments. I am the leader, and he the follower, no matter what I may say about "partnership". He is a man, and I am something else, likened to the Lady who dances among our fires, untouchable. Many have abandoned that precious gift for Her, and most of that number for me also. 

He is not one of them. Though his lips may have spoken the words, they press against mine with a fierce independance that proves his oaths to be lies - lies that even his own heart believes. John Hardin could never be an automaton, for his heart, though gullible, is too strong. Even when he kneels, it is because he chooses to kneel. He has been blessed, as all men are blessed, and yet... 

Among our brethren, whose adoration and contrition sometimes seems as unnaturally complete as that of our summoned creatures, his free will is as much a blessing to me as it is to him. To have a soul, a body, which submits to mine without being asked or compelled - in the gods' unfathomable way, it may be a recompense for that which the Dark took from me. 


	26. hands

**hands**

Whenever people meet him, the first things their eyes are drawn to are his hands. Most show revulsion; for some it is mingled with awe, while some make the sign of the Rood, as if a simple motion could banish solid steel. 

Day to day contact with the man who carries these strange instruments lessens the revulsion, of course. Watching him do such mundane things as dressing, eating, wielding a sword - at times, one does not notice the fact that the fingers sliding through cloth, clenched around the hilt are wicked and pointed and dangerous. Not even when they are aiming a blade for your throat. 

Other times, they reassert their abnormality with the creak and tap of metal on metal, or metal on clay, as he smiles across the breakfast table, the light catching on silver barbs as he lifts a drink to his lips. It is something one never entirely gets over, even once the revulsion has passed. 

The awe remains with those who follow him, and their existance continues to be an insult to those who oppose us. His hands, given by the gods, are a symbol of who and what he is - an avatar of sorts for his own person, garnering the same reaction, muted. 

Perhaps that is why, when his palms are cold against my chest or the slim blades bite into my shoulders or thighs, I do not begrudge them in the least, but instead welcome them. 


	27. windows to the soul

**windows to the soul**

His eyes are dark. That is all, for most. Perhaps, if they are brave enough to linger more than a moment, they will see his eyes reflect the colors around him, tinted red and orange with fire or partaking in the green of the foliage. It is rare that they look so long to notice, however; if the eyes are the windows to the soul, they see at once that his soul is smoke and mirrors, and their gaze flinches away. 

I have learned that they are grey. It is a color I can compare to nothing in nature, for it is more somber than steel, more fluid than stone, more solid than shadows. It is neither warm as ash nor cold as deep waters - it simply is, and it is his alone. When I dare to look closely, I can even see the smallest of black flecks around the pupil, and know that this is a secret, a reward for my daring. For me, the smoke clears and the mirrors shatter. 

And yet, when I look deeply, then do I see myself. 


	28. ambition

**ambition**

I have seen my successor in my dreams. Not the whole, but bits and pieces - fragments of a man who will someday come together in my sight, as the pieces of a puzzle. When that instant comes, I shall know him as I know all those who follow me, and many that came before me. For now, he is a stranger. 

Although he is my friend, my partner within our fellowship, John has never asked if he is to be my successor. He never will. The thought is completely foreign to him - after all, I am to live forever. There is no reason in his mind for there to be a successor, and he will follow me as long as he lives. 

No matter how weary I am of my tasks, despite the pain they bring me - his loyalty nearly makes me wish there was never to be a successor. But there must. 

If it were a choice given to me to make, and were such an arrangement even possible, I would still not choose him. It is not that he is too weak, or too inexperienced - if the Dark was to wait for experience, I never would have come into this power. Rather, it is a burden I would not offer a friend. 

Besides, I have heard the whispers in his heart at night as he lies beside me, or beneath me, his hands clutching my shoulders or clenching in my hair. I fear that they are true: in my absence, he would find his life not worth living. 


	29. predators

**predators**

When first the Dark came upon me, I heard it speak of its desires. Having lacked a body for so long a time, it craved warmth, it longed for blood and flesh. It sought to force its way inside of me, to fill me, though my body could not withstand the demands it made of me. The Dark is merely a force of nature, he told me, and not something evil - as the wolf preys on the hare, so does the Dark seek what it hungers for. 

Some nights, I look up at him as he kneels between my legs, his claws drawing long red trenches in my side or shoulder or thigh, a strange light in his eyes behind the tendrils of sweat-dark hair, and wonder who or what it is that has invited me to his bed. 

And then I wonder if perhaps I should pity the wolf, for its hunger must run deep. 


	30. power plays

**power plays**

Some men are content to assume their role of choice, or the role which they default to, without argument. Others will strive for more, pushing and forcing their way ahead, always believing there can be something better - and enjoying the mayhem they leave behind as they find their way. 

Those who know me at all would know that I am the latter, and yet only one who has shared my bed has dared to delight me in such a way, challenging my claim to the upper hand at each turn. I enjoy his struggles for dominance every bit as much as - in truth, perhaps more than - the undeniable victory I win over him each time, no matter how spirited his efforts. For all the amusement he provides, I might take pity on John Hardin - but I know that in his heart, he enjoys the contests of will and strength as much as I do. 

Indeed, we suit each other well - for the only thing which he may enjoy more than the contests themselves is his eventual defeat at my hands. 


	31. balance

**balance**

The prophecy that morning weakened him more than usual. Ill and exhausted, he slept while I carried him in my arms, cradled him like a child for the duration of the day's travels. 

That night, he repaid me by marking my cheek and my chest and my legs, with cruel smirks and cold hisses. 

When we had exhausted ourselves, he sat beside me on our blankets, healing the wounds he had inflicted one by one, and I could not help but speak. "I know well how strong you are, Sydney. Just because I've seen you at your weakest, it doesn't mean you need to try so hard to prove your strength." 

His eyes, still haunted by dark circles and the Dark's chaos, met mine with another smirk. "If you think so, Hardin, you do not know me at all." 


	32. live steel

**live steel**

They know I share his bed. They do not know what he does to me. Rather, I pray that they do not, though they must have seen me emerge from his presence bloodied and worn many a time. What manner of twisted pride, I wonder, would rather have my brothers in faith and arms believe me a helpless victim of his anger, as opposed to knowing that I willingly submit myself? Gods, that I even request it of him?

And what manner of twisted fascination would cause a man to consider bloodshed an acceptable - nay, even a desirable gift from one's...

I cannot call him by ordinary words, for there is nothing ordinary about the bond we share, nor the way it is expressed, nor Sydney himself. I do not look upon him as I would a suitor; I ask for no softness, warmth, or mercy, but instead seek out the cold sting of his claws. His beauty is not tranquil, but violent. He is most lovely when his eye holds a frightening glint, like that of live steel striking in moonlight, and his hands follow suit.

Knowing my heart as he does, perhaps he could tell me why his violence so enthralls me, but I dare not ask.


	33. deserved

**deserved**

Sydney told me once that anger has scarred my soul. I can hardly disagree, but it is certainly not an unexpected result of the life I lived previous to our meeting. Yet part of my frustration is that I still wonder whether or not it was warranted.

I did things that were wrong, true. My motives were unselfish, however - one could not fault me for doing a small thing, only what was necessary to support my brother. Many could fault me for my confession, for my naming names, but they were as guilty as I - they have no right to judge. Again, my desire for freedom was for my brother's sake.

Was it so terrible a thing that I deserved false promises and lies, solitude and confinement, knowing all the time that my brother wasted away alone? Had he done anything to deserve that fate? Has anyone received what they were due?

...Then, sometimes, I look at the pale body lying disheveled beside me, limbs cold and hard but no less beautiful. I must wonder if he is precisely what I deserve, a reward from the gods for bearing witness to so much injustice.

Other times, when he wakes, I wonder if my deeds were darker than I believed, and my closeness to him is well-deserved punishment.


	34. relations

**relations**

He adores the boy, and the boy adores him, much to the dismay of the boy's mother. She would prefer for her son to avert his eyes at the presence of cultists like Hardin and myself who dare to set foot within her pious household, but she cannot know the strange bond that leads him to instead regard him with silent, sober reverence. Even the boy himself cannot know, for I covered those bonds long ago. Not severed; they shall never be severed - not until the time at which one end disappears.

Bonds severed may find anchor elsewhere, however, and this is why Hardin's eyes linger on the lad. His brother resembled Joshua not a bit, but it makes no different to a heart that has found itself cut loose. Hardin is deluding himself, but there are no grounds for me to rebuke him. He has offered me much. If our circumstances were more conventional, as he wishes they were, he would have offered me more - a ring, his hand. In his heart, he has offered me the equivalent.

His soul echoes back that which cannot be. I cannot tell him in truth that Joshua is not his brother, for the bonds in the boy's blood and the man's heart proclaim that he is.


End file.
